Damage
by tapeandblades
Summary: Sherlock has dealt with a mystery illness for four years. Sent away from doctors and still undiagnosed, he learns to cope. However, when it becomes worse and his good friend Dr Watson notices, he sets about helping him. A good old sick!fic and some solid platonic bromance. Rated T to be safe. Reviews greatly appreciated.
1. Impassable

**Hello! I hope you enjoy this sick!fic- it isn't a one shot, and will be continued, but this one is not yet on wattpad. **

**Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or BBC Sherlock.**

**I'd like to add that I suffered from the same condition as Sherlock for four years, and doctors became lazy with diagnosing me. So I am writing from my experience- however, when I started having episodes everyday my mother put her foot down so fortunately it never got to vomiting, though I was close. Thank God, as I am emetophobic. **

**I hope you like it- sorry for making Sherly suffer!**

**-tapeandblades**

Sherlock normally wore an expression of nonchalance when he refused a meal, as if it were habit, or just simple lack of appetite. He didn't bother with looking disgusted, never considered the pros or cons- just waved a hand dismissively and continued with his daily routine. Not that he had a daily routine, but all the same, he just didn't care.

John had always pondered this strange and erratic relationship with food. If John forced him to eat, he would look mildly irritated, but would never complain. The doctor did notice, however, that he would remain eerily quiet for the majority of the following day, and this confused him.

So when Sherlock's face screwed up in discomfort at the mention of food, John was surprised. He had been holding out a plate of toast and was giving the taller man a stern look- a look that immediately slipped from his face when Sherlock grimaced, face paling a few shades. His doctor instincts kicked in, and he put the plate down, taking a step closer to his flatmate.

"Are you all right?" He said, and Sherlock nodded, expression now blank and eyes void of any emotion that may have been there seconds prior. John didn't give up so easily though, and instead picked up the toast and reoffered it to the detective. "Eat something. You didn't eat all of yesterday."

There it was- the pained expression. Sherlock didn't do the best job of hiding it this time, and John knew something was wrong. "Sherlock, tell me why you don't want it. Are you sick?"

"I'm fine," he said, snatching the plate from John. "Why wouldn't I be?"

John eyed him skeptically as he munched angrily on the buttered toast, his teeth gnashing quickly as if to prove a point. There was definitely something there, in his icy irises. It looked like it could be exhaustion, but not the tired kind. More of the expecting kind- Sherlock knew something was going to happen.

"Lestrade has a case," he drawled blandly once his plate was clear. "Double homicide. His guess is a suicide pact, but it's obviously not." Standing, he slid on his coat, tying his scarf in a knot. "You coming? Or are you just going to stand there frowning?"

John shook his head, yanking his coat from the hanger and dragging it on. Sherlock smirked, idly pulling on his gloves. "I have to say, the latter option wasn't very productive." John can't help but laugh at this, but the chuckles die in his throat when Sherlock's face slips back into one of discomfort again. It doesn't last long, and the taller man swallows thickly before marching out the door.

Once again, John goes to voice his concerns, but is immediately cut off when Sherlock begins rattling on about the case and the contents of the file. This lasts the entire cab ride to the scene, and John decides that he will interrogate the detective later- a startling and vaguely ironic concept, but a must nevertheless.

"So," Lestrade began when they climbed out of the cab, turning sharply and leading them into the building. "Just to warn you, they're young," he said, chewing his bottom lip in agitation. "Fifteen and Sixteen, so don't be alarmed when you walk in."

"We won't be," Sherlock stated, frowning. He glanced back at John, noticing that the doctor looked a little uneasy. "Well, I won't be," he corrected, pushing past Lestrade in order to enter the room.

Almost immediately, Sherlock strode over to the bodies and began examining them. John walked around the two teenagers more cautiously, feeling a pang of grief in his chest. There was a boy and a girl, lying on the floor and tangled in each others arms. Each had a matching bullethole just over their ear, and the boy had traces of sticking tears marking his cheeks.

John was lost in the tragic scene when Sherlock started his deductive speech, and only caught snippets of his theories. Something about the angle of the gun, and the position of their arms. Oh, and the position of the window.

"Really Detective Inspector, I would have expected even you to figure this one out," Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows. "Psychopathic father, just released from prison after two years. Convicted of child abuse. It was in the-" He stopped suddenly, and John looked up in confusion. The detective had his eyes closed, and was swaying ever so slightly.

"Sherlock?" John placed his hand on the taller man's elbow, becoming more worried when Sherlock didn't register his touch. "What's wrong?"

"I'm fine," he muttered, lifting his hand and rubbing it over his brow. His lips had thinned out and a small sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. "I just need to..."

John helped him lower himself to the ground, and Lestrade turned and shut the door so the forensics team stayed out. Once on the floor, Sherlock hunched over, hands bracing his head as he sucked in deep breaths. "What's happening?" John asked anxiously, his hand having now migrated to the Sherlock's shoulder. A reply never came- instead, with his face creased in pain, the detective leant forward further, positioning his head, between his knees.

When a small moan came from the hunched figure, the doctor stared at Greg, eyes darting about frantically. "Has this happened before?" He demanded, and the Inspector shrugged, clearly as lost as he was.

"I have no clue." Lestrade bent down to Sherlock's level, trying to get a glimpse of his face. "Maybe he's just sick...?"

"Maybe," John mumbled, placing his hand on the detectives neck. "He's a little warm, but I don't think he has a fever."

Just then, Sherlock shifted, placing himself on his knees and clutching his stomach. Both men got a look at his face, which was now ashen, and a little green. His lips trembled as he dragged in several large breaths, and John noticed he was controlling his breathing, like he'd been in this situation before. Another groan, his eyes screwing up tighter, and the doctor could see what was going to happen before it did.

Sherlock retched, rocking forward and vomiting onto the floor. John lifted him up so he wasn't sick on his clothes, rubbing his back in soothing circles. Lestrade brushed his hair away as another wave hit, the detective gagging and spitting up bile as John reached under and massaged his aching stomach, feeling it spasming beneath his fingers.

"J-John," Sherlock choked out, tears framing his eyes as his stomach gave another alarming jolt. John squeezed his shoulder.

"I'm here," he said soothingly as the man threw up again, hands braced either side of him as another round hit the concrete. He knew he wasn't finished until his breakfast was gone, until his stomach was empty. It rolled and churned uncomfortably, clenching painfully as he emptied it onto the floor, breath coming in short gasps and his body shaking violently.

This lasted another few minutes, before he slumped back and rested his head on his knees, John and Greg either side of him. They both exchanged worried glances, watching as the detective trembled, in obvious agony. When John thought he had recollected himself, he helped him into a sitting position, moving them so they leant against the wall and away from the bodies and vomit.

"We should get you home," John said as Sherlock leant his head back and let his eyes flutter shut, exhausted and still not looking particularly well. After a few moments, he nodded, not even bothering to argue- something that concerned John the most. "Do you think you can stand?" Sherlock had to consider this, which was enough for the doctor to sigh, lifting him from under his shoulders and letting him lean against him. He wrapped his arm around the taller man's waist, leading him slowly past the sergeants and forensic team and out into the open air.

"You should've told me you were sick," John said once they were inside a cab, Sherlock leaning his head against the cool window. He was only met with silence. "If you'd said, you wouldn't of thrown up at a crime scene."

"I am quite aware," Sherlock murmured against the window, eyes still shut. "I thought it would pass."

"Pass?" John frowned, bewildered. "When you get ill, it doesn't just pass, Sherlock."

He pulls his head away from the window, eyes tired as he turns to face John. "It normally does."

John gapes, staring as the world's only consulting detective fell against the window again, surrendering to his transport's needs. When he finally pieces it together, he stumbles over the words, sounding like a total idiot.

"Wait so, wait you mean..." John waves his hands, eyes drifting to the floor. "You mean this has happened before?"

Sherlock hummed in response, some colour returning to his face. John continued to gawp, utterly taken aback. Why has he never said anything before?

"I can normally deal with it without making a fuss," Sherlock said, as if he had just read John's mind. "It's never been that bad before. First time I've vomited with it."

"What is 'it'?" John questioned, eyes narrowed. Sherlock dragged a hand over his face tiredly, letting it fall with a slap to his knee.

"I don't know."

Those words terrified John.

"I can only describe it as an episode- I've never been diagnosed with anything specific." His speech was becoming more coherent by the second, and the shakes were dying down. John would say that he didn't look quite so pale, but you could never really tell with Sherlock; with his alabaster skin and dark curls to contrast.

"Why not?" John exclaimed, disturbing the cabbie, who gave them an odd look. Sherlock rolled his eyes, moving them lazily over to John's face.

"Because no one could be bothered to figure it out. That's why," he spat, tone spiteful. "I've learnt to cope."

John's face softens. "You shouldn't have to." The cab begins to slow down as they approach Bakers Street. "It's why you don't eat, isn't it?"

Sherlock regards him with indifference; and when they arrive at 221B, steps out of the car steadily, if not a little slowly. John follows, subtly walking close behind his flatmate in case he falls.

Sherlock goes straight to the sofa once inside his flat, collapsing with unexplainable grace and curling up on his side.

So as not to disturb him, John silently vowed that if no other doctor would diagnose him, then John had to. Sherlock had chosen the right person to share a flat with.

He was a medical man, after all.


	2. Unavoidable

Unfortunately, the topic wasn't brought up again.

It wasn't like John didn't try- he noticed the tense silences, the times when Sherlock closed his eyes and took noticably deeper breaths. He tried to bring it up, but Sherlock didn't deem it necessary- he hadn't vomited again, after all.

John noticed several other things too. The episodes not only gave him unbearable nausea, but stomach pain, vertigo, and lack of energy. He could barely stand during one, and he kept his eyes closed as to stop the room spinning. Now that John understood, he couldn't handle watching his friend suffer through it. He wanted to do _something,_ but Sherlock just wouldn't let him.

Every time he brought it up, Sherlock shot him down.

Whether it was glaring, interrupting, or storming out, John could not get a word in edgewise.

It was a week later when it was finally mentioned. And at that point, it was unavoidable anyway.

"John."

"Not right now Sherlock," John said, typing out an email to his latest girlfriend, Sharon. She was lovely, a blonde beautician with the most pretty blue eyes-

"_John_."

"Look, I know you're bored but right now I'm kind of busy so-"

"John, _please_."

_Please._

As John turned to face him, Sherlock slumped to the floor, eyes tightly shut while sucking in large volumes of air through shaky lips. He'd gone green again, and John stood up from his chair automatically, sending it crashing into the bookcase behind.

"Shit," John hissed, running round and grabbing a basin from the kitchen table. It had some sort of organ in it- John could have sworn it was a _human lung_- and so John dumped it in the bin and quickly rinsed the blue bucket out. By this time, Sherlock had placed his head between his knees, a sure sign that the nausea was becoming extreme and that vomiting was inevitable.

Sherlock was vaguely aware of John sitting beside him when the bile rose in his throat. Gagging, he threw himself forward, hanging his head over a bucket that he was sure hadn't been there before. Like last time, John reached under his shirt and rubbed his fingers over his stomach. The sound of the sick hitting the bottom of the basin was horrifying, but the motion of John's cool hand on his cramping internal organs was strangely comforting. Breathing heavily and assuming it was over, Sherlock lifted his head, sniffling as John squeezed his shoulder.

"We should run some tests," John said quietly, brushing Sherlock's dark hair away from his pale and sweaty forehead. "Get you admitted at Barts-"

"No," Sherlock protested, releasing his grip on the bucket. "I'll be fine, I just need to- Oh!" His stomach convulsed again, and he was leaning over the rim of the basin a second time, painful retches filling the flat. John rubbed his back, telling him to get it all out, that it was fine, that he was here.

After a few minutes of dry heaves, Sherlock leant back against John, shivering violently. Pulling a blanket from the chair, John wrapped the sick detective in it, propping him up against the sofa and walking to the kitchen. It was physically painful for John to see his friend like this- the arrogant and fearless consulting detective reduced to a shaking and weak bundle of limbs. It wasn't fair that Sherlock was victim to this, this _thing_ that left him unable to move, unable to think, unable to do _anything._

He returned with a glass of water, sliding down next to the detective and handing it to him. Sherlock takes it gratefully, taking small sips so as not to upset his stomach again. The colour had just begun to return to his face, but he still looked so very tired.

"I won't admit you," John said after a few moments of silence. "But I'm taking you to see a specialist."

Sherlock groaned, setting his water aside and rubbing his hands over his face. "Why?" He whined, before leaning back and making various disgruntled noises.

"Because you can't go on like this!"

"I've dealt with it for four years John, I'm fine."

John's heart jolts, and suddenly his breath is gone and he's spluttering and staring and _God what- how could he cope, after FOUR YEARS!_

"Wh-What do you-" John blinks rapidly, sitting up straighter and then slumping back again. "_Four years?_"

Sherlock grunts dismissively, taking another sip of his water. There was no way he was unaffected by this, he had to be depressed or just plain pissed or something-

"Sherlock, this could be serious." John stood, planning to arrange an appointment for as soon as humanly possible. "Four years is a long time for an illness to be getting progressively worse."

"Correct," Sherlock confirms, and John frowns at him, dazed. The detective rolls his eyes, irritated that he had to spell it out. "I've been visiting general practitioners and various other doctors for years now John. They just prescribe me more meds and then send me on my way."

"What meds?" John asked, and Sherlock pinches his nose, tired and bored and finding his bed just down the hall very tempting. But nevertheless, he knows John is a doctor and is desperate to get all the information so that he can form some concept of a diagnosis.

"Omeprazole, Movicol, Laxido, Ranitidine, Esomeprazole, Famotidine..." He counts them on his fingers, eyes lifted to the ceiling. "And then just antacids." John registers each of them, running the compounds through his mind.

"They gave you laxatives?" John questions, incredulous. "Surely that did more damage than good!"

Sherlock grimaces. "Actually, no. Partial Rectum Failure seems to be part of the problem- I was backed up into my large intestine."

There's a wince from John, then Sherlock turns back to his water. How had he not noticed any of this? He was a doctor, a soldier, one of the best in his field- yet, how could he be so blind?

"We are definitely seeing a specialist," John decides whole-heartedly, snatching up his mobile. Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, but John silenced him with a stern look, coupled with a tense hand. "Not a single word from you," he threatens rather forcefully, and Sherlock looks mildly surprised. "I don't care how many people I have to blackmail, you are getting an appointment _tomorrow._"

"Fine." Sherlock groaned, climbing unsteadily to his feet. "It's late anyway. I'm going to bed."

John stared wide eyed as the detective shuffled down the hall, restraining himself from pointing out that it was only eight and Sherlock _never _slept. But he didn't want to ruin it- If Sherlock was desperate for some shut-eye, than John was not going to protest.

He would need it, after all.

"Saint Bartholemews Hospital, how can I help you?"

"Hello," John says, walking over to his chair. "This is Doctor Watson. I'd like to request an appointment for one of my patients. A gastric specialist, please."


	3. Unattainable

"Sherlock Holmes?"

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock hissed in John's ear when the nurse summoned them to the examination room. They had been glaring at each other for the past twenty minutes whilst sitting in the waiting room, and to Sherlock's dismay, John's steely gaze had not faltered for the entirety of the period.

"No, Sherlock," John replied, standing and beginning to follow the nurse. "What's ridiculous is going four years with no bloody diagnosis!" He'd not shouted, but he'd been loud enough for several other patients to begin shifting uneasily. The detective himself remained silent and stiff, and trailed woodenly behind the two medics.

"Doctor Watson, I presume?" A short and mousy woman jumped up when they entered, thrusting her hand forward. "Doctor Bristol," she said when John nodded, grasping his hand and pumping it up and down. "Nice to meet you."

Sherlock decided there and then that he would not like her one bit. Currently biased or unbiased.

"You must be Sherlock," she sung cheerily, waving him towards a seat. "So, why don't you tell me what's ailing you?"

He snorted. "Is that not _your_ job, Dr. Bristol?" He drawled snarkily, and John sighed in exasperation. _Here we go._

Surprisingly, the doctor smiled, retaliating with ease and efficiency. "Absolutely, but unless you want me to stick a needle in your spine then you need to give me a list of symptoms to work with."

John's mouth dropped slightly, before tugging into a victorious smirk. He decided there and then that he would like her very much. Currently biased or unbiased.

Scowling, the detective gestured to the file. "I'm sure everything you need is in there."

"If I'm not mistaken, Mr Holmes," she says, placing her biro on the file and leaning back in her chair, "but doctors have failed to be of any use to you these past four years. I'm sure we'd agree that general practitioners are all idiots- excuse my indelicacy." Sherlock can't help but smile. "If it were not for Dr. Watson here, you'd probably still be subjected to their stupidity. An awful concept, I know." She leans forward again, hands on her knees. "I assure you that I will help in anyway I can. I'm good at what I do, Mr Holmes, and I'm afraid you have been mistreated by doctors for a long while. Neglect is one of the worst crimes in the medical profession. Now, you know that file is useless to me. You can either work with me, or I'll have to use more invasive measures to get the diagnosis we both crave."

"I get the feeling we are more alike than I originally thought," Sherlock commented, clasping his hands together. Dr. Bristol smiled wryly, nodding slowly.

"We both want answers," she agreed, picking up her pen. "So, shall we begin?"

x-x-x

"No."

Dr. Bristol sighs. "Sherlock-"

"You were doing so well, Dr. Bristol," Sherlock spits, hands latched onto the arm of his chair. "But I refuse to be admitted."

John rubs his hand over his face. "It's the only way-"

"No." Sherlock stands from his chair, making to leave.

"I am not like other doctors, Mr Holmes." The specialist stands, crossing her arms. "With Dr. Watson's permission I will not hesitate to admit you against your will."

Sherlock paused at the door, jaw set. "I'll sue."

Both doctors snort. "I'd like to see you try."

When Sherlock turned to face them again, his eyes were almost pleading. "Is it absolutely necessary?"

"It's strongly recommended," Dr. Bristol replied, softening at the desperation on her new patients face. "I'll tell you what." She leans over her desk, picking up a piece of paper. "Let's compromise. I'll let you go for a week, and at the end of the week, we will forcibly admit you. However, I have reason to believe that you'll be back here before the week is up."

"And why is that, Dr. Bristol?" Sherlock tilts his head almost competetively, eyes glinting.

"Because," she replies, motioning to John. "Like Dr. Watson said, it_ is_ the only way."

**Sorry for the short one, but I should be updating soon. I hope you're enjoying it! Reviews are much appreciated.**


	4. Inseperable

Despite Sherlock's apparent determination to prove Dr. Bristol wrong, he was prepared to give up four days later.

When he literally fell to his knees.

It had been the seventh episode that week. Five had been relatively minor (if you would call curling in on yourself with your eyes tightly closed while a mind-consuming nausea threatened to push you over '_relatively minor_') and one had ended with Sherlock braced on the toilet bowl. John was prepared to draw the line at the next major episode, but he didn't have to- Sherlock did for him.

The seventh episode sent him crashing to the floor with a hand clasped over his mouth. The agony in his stomach was terrible as it rolled threateningly, and John was at his side with a bucket in mere seconds. He almost collapsed on top of it as he emptied his lunch and then some into the bottom, back arching with each painful retch.

John had literally opened his mouth to declare a surrender when the man himself spoke.

"Okay," he panted, spitting bile and leaning his head on the rim. "I give up."

John blanched. He had never expected those words to come from Sherlock's mouth. "_What?_"

"You were right. This is ridiculous." He felt something hot on his face, but he's too out of it to register what this mystery liquid is. John, however, looked on in horror as several tears slipped down the detectives face and fell onto his lap.

He was truly at the mercy of this illness.

"You can take me in tomorrow," he whimpered, curling in on himself. "I'm too tired to go now."

"Okay," John said, reaching over and running his hands through his flatmates her. "Okay. Get some rest."

He slid a pillow beneath his head and placed a blanket over his pale form; leaving him to sleep on the floor while John packed their bags for the next day.

x-x-x

Dr. Bristol smiled sadly when a very sullen Sherlock walked into her clinic. "This is one of those times, where I'm not happy that I was right."

John grimaced, pushing his friend forwards slightly. "We've not had the best week."

"I'm sure."

Sherlock stayed silent as he was lead through the hospital and into a large ward. A nurse pulled back a curtain and gestured to a bed, walking round and smoothing over the covers.

"Got your own bed Mr Holmes," she said, smiling toothily. "Close to the loo too. Best one on the ward."

"Thank you Keira," John said gratefully, while Sherlock just nodded solemnly, sitting on the edge of the sheets.

"I'm right over there at the nurses station, Dr. Watson," she replied, pointing to a desk with several ladies drinking coffee. "If you need anything."

John liked Keira; found her reasonably attractive with curly brown hair and a wide smile. She always sat with him in the cafeteria, and John had been planning to ask her out. Sharon hadn't wanted to continue with their relationship when he cancelled on a movie date because Sherlock had begged him to participate in an experiment. In his defence, the man had convinced him it would be influential in changing the future of forensics. A lie, but a convincing one nevertheless.

"You're lucky you have her," John said, the admiration clear in his voice. "She's good."

Sherlock simply smirked, laying back on the pillows with his hands behind his head. "Humans are so obvious."

John tried not to look too deeply into what he was referring to.

They were interrupted five minutes later when Keira returned. "I've been ordered to attach a saline drip," she explained, holding up a needle and moving to Sherlock's side. Sherlock didn't even flinch when she inserted it. "Just to keep you hydrated." She hung up a bag and grinned at John again before scurrying off, nodding at Dr. Bristol as she made her way over.

"Okay," the specialist sighed, flicking through the chart idly at the end of the bed. "Let's go through what's going to happen."

They talked through the procedures that were to take place- an endoscopy, gastric biopsy and a pH study. A camera would be pushed down his throat and down his oesophagus to his stomach, and while they were down there a piece of the lining would be taken for testing. He'd be awake during the procedure, and it would not be very pleasant, but would be very useful in his diagnosis.  
>A pH study would also be conducted. A catheter would go up his nose and down his throat to stay in his oesophagus for twenty-four hours or more, and attached to a machine that would determine the pH of his stomach acid and bile while also showing how high it rose.<p>

"You're booked for a few hours time," she confirmed, glancing at her watch. "Around twelve. i want to keep you here for as long as necessary afterwards, if you wouldn't mind. And during the pH study, I want you to eat three balanced meals of a substantial size." She crossed her arms when Sherlock groaned. "I know that it will be difficult and will most like induce an episode, but it is necessary for reliable results."

"Won't the catheter become dislodged if he vomits?" John questioned, always the medical man. Dr. Bristol shook her head, scribbling something down on the chart.

"No, it shouldn't do if we insert it properly. And I am almost certain we will." She hooks it at the end of the bed again, tapping it for good measure. "I'll be back for you in approximately three hours. I want you changed into a gown by then."

"I want to go home _already,_" Sherlock moaned, turning to plant his face in the pillow. "I'm _bored._"

"I'll get Lestrade to bring some cold cases," John compromised, patting Sherlock's arm. "I'm not sure that you'll feel up to solving them though."

"Sherlock?"

Both men looked up to see a very nervous and worried pathologist, fiddling with her fingers and brushing back her mousy brown hair. "Millie was telling me about her new patient and I thought it sounded so much like you, I snuck a look at her chart and... well, it was you!"

"Millie?"

"Millie Bristol," Molly explained, taking a small step forward. "Are you alright? I mean, if you don't want to tell me, because, patient confidentiality and such, you don't have to, but I, um, I'm just-"

"Fine, Molly." Sherlock sat up and shot her a reassuring smile. "I'm only in here for a few days, just something minor that's going on." He glares at John. "Wouldn't be here if it weren't for my flatmate. So, of course, nothing to worry about."

"Sorry if I don't believe you," Molly retorted, placing her hands on the edge of the bed. "I heard about the crime scene incident the, um the other week. Lestrade told me."

"While you were in bed?"

Molly blushes a deep scarlet. "I-I don't know what you're talking about."

John shoots the detective a dirty look. "Sherlock," he warned.

Keira came back over before Sherlock could launch into his deductions. "Need some blood," she said, pulling out a needle. He rolled up his sleeves, laying his pale arm on the bed. She tapped his elbow over and over, frowning at the scars and huffing when she couldn't find a vein. John, having been in a similar position before, told her to use the left arm.

"Ah, much better," she remarked as she inserted the needle, drawing out the blood. "Lucky to live with a man like Dr. Watson, eh Sherlock?"

"Very," the detective said, lips curling devilishly. "I would invite you to try it some time."

John covered his face with his hands, but his ears still turned visibly pink. Molly couldn't help but giggle, and Keira tusked at Sherlock, waggling her finger. "Naughty," she scolded, slapping him playfully. "But I accept your invitation." Winking at John, she marches back over to the nurses station, handing the vial of blood to another nurse and resuming her perch by the computer.

x-x-x

"Absolutely not."

"It's just a bloody gown- put it on!"

"I refuse to humiliate myself in such a matter." Sherlock crosses his arms, pouting stubbornly. "It has a hole in the back."

"You can still wear your underwear!"

"Problem?" Dr. Bristol asks, peeking through the curtain and frowning. "You haven't got your gown on."

"I'm not wearing it!" He exclaims, throwing his hands up. "Just do the procedure with my clothes on."

"If you want bile and spit down your shirt, so be it." She pulls the curtain back over to hide her smirk. She hears some murmuring on the other side, a few shuffles, and then some groans. "Done?" She calls, trying to keep to the laughter from her voice.

"Yes," Sherlock grumbles, and Dr. Bristol whips the curtain back.

"Good. Now, climb into bed, and we'll take you down."

Several nurses adjust the bed as Sherlock climbs in, lifting the sides and removing the guards on the wheels. He scowls at each of them as the bed begins moving, clearly embarassed to be in such a state.

"Don't worry Dr. Watson," Dr. Bristol shouts back at John, who is standing by his chair and watching Sherlock go. He is unable to hide his look of concern as the bed is wheeled away. "We'll bring him back in one piece, I promise."


	5. Irreversible

John was waiting outside the theatre for Sherlock. They'd given him anaesthetic as his gag reflex had been too active, and so they couldn't get clear images. Just like Sherlock to be difficult and stubborn, even if it wasn't exactly his fault.

They invited John inside to come see him as he came to, and Sherlock's head lolled and his eyes fluttered blearily as John walked over. He glanced at John with a hazy gaze, and the army doctor smiled, holding his thumb up. Sherlock grinned sloppily and held his own hand up in return, before promptly passing out once more.

It was another hour and Sherlock was safely back in his room when he woke up again. John sat by his bed with a book and the lanky man next to him shifted and groaned, opening his eyes woodenly and blinking in submission. His jaw tightened and he gulped reflexively, and John held a dish under his mouth as he vomited, rubbing his back until the heaves died down. Turns out general anaesthetic didn't agree with Sherlock much.

"Revolting," Sherlock spat once he had collapsed against the pillow again. "That wasn't even real nausea."

"It's the drugs, not an episode," John reasoned, letting a nurse take the basin away. "But I have a feeling that a few of those are to be expected. How are you feeling?"

Sherlock frowned, looking up and then down. "Stupid," he said bitterly, mouth curled into a sneer. "I can't think properly."

"Drugs, Sherlock," John sighed once again, smiling sympathetically down at his best friend. "They affect everyone."

"Not me," he replied, lifting his hand and touching his nose, finally noticing the catheter there. "Is this...?"

"Catheter for the pH study," John finished for him, lifting up the line and showing the detective a black box with blinking numbers on it. "See here?" He pointed to one value at around three point five. "That's the acidity of your stomach. If it's too strong or too weak it will tell us, and it will fluctuate over twenty-four hours which is why you need to eat in that time, so that the test is fair." He ignored Sherlock's whine. "You press this button here," he points to a small grey button, "whenever you feel any discomfort. That includes acid, nausea, pain, vomiting, veritgo, or _anything_. Don't try and ignore it, and don't assume it isn't bad enough. I want you to press it as much as you need to so we can get a good gauge on what's wrong." He puts the box down on the bed, tucking it next to Sherlock's side. "Also," he starts, pointg at Sherlock's chest. "There are points here, here and here-" His upper chest, above his collar bone, and his throat "-that will detect whether acid gets near them. That way the doctor can see how far up your oesophagus it goes." He slumps back in his chair, done explaining. "Everything make sense?"

"Perfectly," Sherlock sighed, swallowing against the catheter down his throat and wincing at the painful tug it gave on his nose. "Not the most comfortable, is it?"

"I don't think comfort was in mind when they designed it." John said, adjusting the tape on Sherlock's face and glaring when the detective tried to shift away. "It's only for a day."

"Too long!"

"Don't shout!"

"You can't tell me what to do!"

"Stop being such a child!" John hissed, jumping up and bringing the curtain round them. He could already tell that the next few days were going to be the longest of his life.

X-X-X

A nurse had brought up a sandwich for Sherlock to eat an hour ago, and, reluctantly, Sherlock had finished it. It was starting to affect him now, and it was at this moment that Dr. Bristol decided to show.

"Mr. Holmes!"

Sherlock gulped, face noticably paler. "Dr. Bristol," he said in a strained voice, and John watched him from the chair with concern.

The specialist tusks, grabbing a basin from the disposable stack next to them and placing it on Sherlock's lap. "I'm sorry that you're having to go through this Sherlock, but it is helping us help you."

"Do you have a diagnosis?" Sherlock said, ignoring Dr. Bristol's statement and rubbing his temples. John subtly reached over and clicked the button, knowing Sherlock would forget to himself.

"Yes, we do have one that explains the majority of your symptoms." She pulls out a clipboard and tugs out some images, handing them to John to look at. The army doctor stared at the shots of Sherlock's stomach frowning.

"It's not supposed to look like that, is it?" John questioned, passing it over to Sherlock who now seemed interested and moving onto the next one. The second image showed various ulcers lining the damaged organ. John sucked in a breath through his teeth, clearly not impressed. "With the condition of his stomach lining, these could have perforated at any time. Why did no one do anything about this?"

"That has only one explanation," Dr. Bristol began, taking the images back from both of them. "The idiocy of general practitioners," both she and Sherlock voiced at the same time, the detective grimacing slightly afterwards.

She held them up, motioning with her finger. "This is chronic gastritis, something that is usually caused by something known as Helicobacter Pylori. We believe you have this, but we are waiting for the bloods to get back to confirm. The ulcers are also caused by this, and overall the damage to your stomach is extensive. Thus, when you eat, this agitates it and causes you to bring it back up."

Sherlock went green as she said that, leaning over the basin just in time to empty his lunch into it. John gently massaged his back and he coughed his sandwich up, back arching with each retch. After a few dry heaves, he sat back up, shaking and pale as Dr. Bristol gave him a sympathetic smile. She called for a nurse to take it away before asking if she was okay to continue.

"Yes," John said, letting the detective rest back on the pillows. "Let's hear all of it."

"Okay," she said, rifling through the various images. "It may not seem like it, Mr. Holmes, but you are actually very lucky. Any longer and the H. Pylori might of had a chance to create stomach cancer, which not fun indeed. Trust me, I have seen several of those cases." She winces, tucking the clipboard under her arm. "The gastritis is very severe, however, which means food may alway be difficult for you as most of the damage is irreversible. But, we will be starting you on triple therapy, which involves 2000mg of Clarithromycin, 2000mg of Amoxicillin, and 1000mg of omeprazole. That, with some plant enzymes and laxatives, should clear everything up." She writes something down on a prescription pad, clipping it to Sherlock's chart. "I warn you, these medications combined can have some nasty side effects, but we're hoping to avoid those. You can adminster them orally every day for a month at home, after the pH study is completed. Omeprazole should be taken long term, however. I'm afraid your poor stomach is seriously damaged, but it's nothing a few strong drugs can't fix." She grins wryly, tucking her pen inside her pocket. "You'll be out of here by tomorrow."

Sherlock grins, turning to look at John. "Thank you, Dr. Bristol," the detective says, sitting up weakly. "I will ensure that your work doesn't go unnoticed."

She blushes, nodding. "Thank _you_, Mr Holmes, for being my most interesting patient yet. It's been really nice to have an ingenious grump around here." She winks when John snorts. "It's made for a nice change." She accepts Sherlock's outstretched hand and shakes it, before turning to leave.

"Four years," the taller man breathed once she was gone. "Four bloody years and it's fixed in a month."

Then both the consulting detective and his army doctor burst into hysterics, for no particular reason at all.

**A/N Sorry for the wait! Here it is. I have nothing against general practitioners, it's just a line for the story!**

**Also, Benedict is engaged! Congratulations, I am so happy for him... but doesn't he know that I'm his soulmate? *shakes head***

**tapeandblades**


	6. Unnoticeable

"Oh _God_," Sherlock moaned, having just spotted Keira approaching with a tray laden with food. The nurse grimaced along with John, who patted his best friend's shoulder.

"You know you have to, mate," he soothed, and the detective glared at him weakly. He'd only just finished with another bout of vomiting, and he was going to have to eat _again_. Considering the episode that had followed dinner had been particularly awful, keeping him up most the night with painful retches and an eventual headache, the mere thought that breakfast was now a mandatory occasion made his stomach roll uncomfortably.

"But _John_," he whined, slapping his hands to his face, "I just bloody _finished_."

"It's cold," Keira put forward, sliding the tray onto the table. "So if you want, I'll give you until eleven to eat it. Two hours?"

John nodded, thanking her. Once she was gone, John grabbed one of the marmite sandwiches that Sherlock had requested the night previously. "I'll help you out, so you only have to have half." Sherlock looked up at him, surprised. "Yeah, I know I'm a doctor so I should know better- but last night was horrific for me to watch, so I can't even imagine what it was like for you. Therefore, I am adamant to avoid a repeat."

Sherlock smiled, nodding and leaning back against the pillow. He reached up and fiddled with his catheter again- much to John's annoyance, having slapped his hand away more than enough times- before staring at the ceiling, seemingly resisting the urge to fall asleep.

Before John could urge him to, the detective spoke up. "The button, you clicked it for me, right?"

John nodded, patting his friends shoulder. "Of course."

"How many times?"

John laughed hollowly, rubbing his hand across his brow. "I lost count." He considered for a moment. "I think my finger may have descended into a spasm attack at some point."

"So the graph," Sherlock rasped, throat still hoarse from the endoscopy, "is going to completely obscured by your spasms."

They both began snickering, before John tusked and straightened out the sheets. "Not to be laughed about," he managed without cracking a smile. "Don't try and stay awake. Sleep for an hour and I'll wake you to eat the other half later."

Sherlock huffed irritably, but nevertheless closed his eyes, and his soft snoring could be heard only minutes later.

x-x-x

"Dr. Watson?"

John glanced up at the snooty man while he idly twirled his umbrella- sighed in exasperation, smiled feebly, and then stood up. The politician tilted his head in questioning, halting the spinning and planting his umbrella on the linoleum with a bang.

"Mycroft. What can I do for you?"

"I see he is indisposed currently. In order to ensure he doesn't awaken, perhaps we could talk outside?"

John nodded, allowing himself one last look at Sherlock as he lay unconcious, before following Mycroft outside into the corridor.

"Primarily," Mycroft began, looking straight at John, "I want to say thank you, Dr. Watson."

John blanched, slightly taken aback by this show of gratitude. "Oh, um, well..." he lifted his hands, nodding. "For uh, this?"

"Yes." The politician, who had been clasping and unclasping his hands over the umbrella handle for the last minute, leant it against the wall and tucked his arms behind his back. "If you hadn't insisted on his admittance, or any of his examinations, he might have gone for another few years before being brought in on a stretcher. Stomach cancer, I believe they said?" John nodded. "Well, I guess you could almost say that you saved him."

"Dr. Bristol saved him," John countered, going slightly pink.

"No, you did. In more ways than one, I believe." Mycroft nodded confidently, happy with his conclusion. "He is rather reckless, my brother. I'm quite surprised he hasn't ended up dead already, either from a gunshot or just lack of self-maintenance." He chuckled sadly. "By some miracle, he hasn't run himself into the ground. He was close, but because of you, it shall be fixed."

"Thank you."

"No, thank _you_, John."

John reddened further. "It's no problem."

Mycroft cleared his throat, clapping his hands together. "So, how is he?"

"Right now? Not paticularly good." Beat. "But, he will be, hopefully. They think they know what it is, they've already got drugs sorted, they're just waiting for the pH study to finish."

"Good. And the treatment?"

"Will be... interesting," John admitted. "There'll be side effects. In my opinion, I think some of them will benefit him specifically."

Mycroft frowned. "Meaning?"

"When he's hungry, or even _not _hungry, he'll get strong hunger pains." John smirked when realisation hit the British governments face. "Drowsiness. Sometimes, even when he's not tired, he may just pass out. Not really _dangerous_, but probably quite amusing."

"Passing out? Like fainting?"

"No actually. Sleeping, like a deep sleep. He may even snore."

A small chuckle. "Interesting."

"Like I said."

"You'll update me, then?" Concern flickered over his features briefly, the kind that would go unnoticed by a bystander. But the good doctor noticed.

"Of course Mycroft." He gestured back at the door. "Do you want to see him?"

"Perhaps not. Don't want to disrupt the entire hospital, do we?"

John nodded, turning to watch as Mycroft left. Before walking through the door at the end of squeaky door, he called back-

"It really is the battlefield John!"

_Yes,_ John thought. _It is indeed._


End file.
